


Better (In the Snow)

by Goldstein_1984



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Cold, Contest, Fluff, Friendship, Jealousy, M/M, McLennon, The Quarrymen Era, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldstein_1984/pseuds/Goldstein_1984
Summary: John hates the first snow. Paul loves it.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	Better (In the Snow)

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another mclennon fluff. The idea came to me when it first snowed, two weeks ago. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> I don't own the Beatles nor The Musical Box shop, of course. (Why would I??)

God, he hated the first snow. 

Those arrogant little wet flakes falling from the sky were teasing him. John always felt like he should take this personally, though he didn’t know why exactly he was thinking of that anyway. Even as a kid, he’d always been saddened by the first snowflakes; it meant that the summer was ending, and it was forewarning of the harsh cold and depressed tempers that would follow. Grown-ups always seemed too affected by it, as if the tiny flakes on their shoulders were to grow an unbearable weight. John was an adult, now, at least in terms of age; but even if he hadn’t to take care of a house or of any other domestic task that would become harder in the winter, he still felt that cumbersome charge, heavy on his heart. As if life would still and silently numb all chances of happiness. 

Plus, as if that wasn’t enough, everyone around him seemed to enjoy it - the snow. The first snow, at least - after the first time, people would inevitably get bored and tired of it. But at first, it would always bring everyone’s attention. John didn’t understand why; if it were to come back every year anyway and was not at all pretty nor useful, why did people always find it so bloody interesting? He really couldn’t see it. 

His feet were so cold. Christ, it was freezing. And it hadn’t even started yet. 

…  
Dear God, he loved the first snow. 

Those delicate, finely wrought flakes felt like tiny pearls on his cheeks and nose. Paul had always liked this time of the year. Even if he didn’t like the winter more than the summer, he always enjoyed the snow, the warm blankets around his shoulders and the tea or hot chocolate drinking. The spirals of the snow whirling near the ground, lazily or brutally blown away by the wind, had something quite impressive to them. Paul would sometimes hide the fact that he really enjoyed this time of the year, knowing people other than children are rarely enthusiastic with the thought of the shovelling or having their limbs colder than they could bear. However, Paul, if he was intolerably sensitive to cold, still found a way to genuinely enjoy the winter when it came. 

…   
It was on a frosty, pale morning of December that Paul and John had planned to go to The Musical Box records shop. Paul had had to call John five minutes before the time they were meeting up to make sure that he was up and ready to go out - which, of course, he was not. They had walked in the snow, quieter than they usually were, until John spoke up : 

“It’s bloody freezing.”

“Yeah”, Paul agreed, burying his nose into his scarf. “At least the sky’s not too covered, the sun’s warming us a bit.” 

John sighed, and Paul looked at him, knowing something was different. 

“Did we really have to go today?”

Paul chuckled lightly. 

“Well, if the cold’s frightening you too much, we could’ve met any other day, y’ know. I just didn’t think that would bother you so much, Johnny.” 

“Why wouldn’t it?”

John seemed tense, randomly kicking off the snow under his shoes. He continued.

“I mean, maybe this is just me here, but I don’t understand why the hell we’d go buy some bloody records on a fucking day like this.”

Paul stopped, looking at John with wide eyes. 

“What’s the matter with you? You could’ve said no to me… You should’ve. Let’s go back home. I’ll go alone. Or we’ll go some other day.” 

John stopped walking too, turning to Paul but eyes fixed on the ground. He let out a grunt and mumbled : 

“Of course, it doesn’t bother you… Everything’s always perfect with you, isn’t it?” 

Paul didn’t answer. He only furrowed his brow and waited, arms crossed and face reddening from the cold. 

“Everything’s always perfect… Even the snow’s getting ya all happy like a little child.” 

“I don’t get it. What do you mean?” 

“Nevermind”, John sighed again, hands buried far into his coat pockets. “Forget I said anything. Let’s buy some Elvis and get back home.” 

He was about to walk away, but Paul put a hand on his shoulder and made him turn around to face him. 

“No. You’ve got to explain yourself. Can’t say a thing like that and just do as if everything was all happy and normal, John. What’s it all about?” 

John didn’t answer. He felt his cheeks burning from the cold and his chest ache from something else - anger, guilt, exhaustion, he didn’t know. Finally, he lifted his eyes up to meet Paul’s, lips tight. 

“I… I don’t know. It’s just… Why do you always have to be better than everyone, at everything? Couldn’t you just hate snow?”

Paul let out a bitter, unbelieving laugh. 

“I’m not like that…! I don’t like snow that much! And even if I did, why on earth would you have a problem with it?” 

John crossed his arms, but immediately regretted it when his hands met the cold air and put them back in his pockets. Paul waited for an answer, frowning.

“I don’t have any problem with you liking snow, you git.”

“Then what is it?” 

“I… You’re… You’re just… always better than… everyone. Always better than… than me. And you fucking like going out this time of year to buy records, and you expect me to be like that too. Like I had… some kind of energy, like you have. But I’m not like you. Nobody’s like that, Paul. And you’ve gotta face that.” 

Paul closed his eyes a brief instant, then opened them and abruptly stepped backwards. 

“Come on, Lennon, this is no time to be jealous.”

His tone was harsh, dry and monotone, just like the winter. 

“I don’t understand”, he said, and John looked elsewhere, everywhere but at him. “I just don’t get it. At least be jealous of something I have… But I’m not like that. I’m not always in a good mood. Not at all. Why would you say that, John? You know I’ve had hard times…”

“I know”, John answered quickly, inadvertently taking a step towards him. “I’m not telling you your life’s perfect. It’s just that you’re always the best at everything… It gets annoying. Gets on my nerves.” 

Paul could have mocked him; but this time, of all times, he didn’t even think of it. He only looked at John, anger and concern altogether slowly creeping inside him and giving him a headache. 

“I’m not the best. And even if I were, why would it bother you? You’re my friend, aren’t you? So why would you have to hate me for being happy or good at something?”

“See? That’s the kind of thing I hate”, John spat impulsively. 

“What thing?”

“Nothing. Nevermind.”

Paul turned around and started walking. 

“Hey, what are you doing!?”

“Coming back home. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” 

John felt as if the coldness of Paul’s voice had just worsened the weather a dozen times. 

That was the issue with him : he only came to truly appreciate people when he got to know them. However, the more he knew people, the more he could see their flaws, and the more he grew annoyed, bothered - hell, he even came to hate them most of the time. 

“Macca, wait”, he cried out, and Paul stopped. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean? It’s all I want to know.”

“I meant that… You’re good at things, you know. Music, talking, smiling…”

“How can someone be good at smiling?” 

Paul’s voice had softened a little. 

“Girls, too”, John added, looking up to him with a cringe. “You always get all the girls.”

“You get a lot of birds too”, Paul responded, uneasy, walking back towards John. “And you’re great at music.” 

John shrugged.

“Yeah, maybe… But y’know, sometimes I feel like… like I can’t do a damn thing right.” 

“It’s not true. And you know it. Wouldn’t be hanging out with you and asking you to go buy some records with me on a bloody freezing day like this one if you weren’t great.” 

John chuckled, and so did Paul. 

“Well, I guess I’m really great, then, if you’re to force me into such a thing”, John grinned.

They resumed their walk towards The Musical Box; John continued talking. 

“You’ve still got to admit that you get more birds than me. I reckon they must fancy your little bourgeois manners.” 

Paul poked him playfully on the arm. 

“No, I’m just more of a gentleman than you are.” 

“Same thing. Anyway, as long as it’s not because you’re better in bed than I am… I overheard that you kiss better than me, though. You know it isn’t true, right?”

“Well, that’s something I can’t say. Can’t tell you it’s true, can’t tell you it isn’t, never tried anything near as… you know… kissing you, or kissing myself…” 

“You’re kinda kissing yourself every time you’re eating, silly”, John smiled.

“Thanks for telling me that.” 

“As for kissing me…” 

He stopped again. Paul faced him, raising his eyebrows so high that they were touching the fringe of his winter hat. 

“Don’t you wanna know once and for all who’s the best at snogging?” 

“What do you want, having a contest with birds as judges…?” 

John smiled mischievously, but stared at his boots, squirming. 

“No, they could cheat or get influenced by our looks. There’s another way we could figure this out.” 

“How?”

John wasn’t facing Paul when he answered : 

“We could kiss each other.” 

“Well, if that’s to make you feel better, I don’t think it’s gonna work, since I know I’ll win”, Paul snorted jokingly. 

But he came to realize that John, even if he still had that weird smile plastered on his face, was serious. 

“So that’s a deal?” John whispered, taking a step towards him. “We kiss, and decide whoever is the best kisser.” 

Paul’s cheeks would have reddened if they hadn’t already from the cold. He didn’t dare look at John, and just laughed nervously in disbelief. 

“So…?” John asked again. “If you don’t feel like it, forget about it… I don’t care. It’s just for fun.” 

“Okay, then”, Paul shrugged, as if he weren’t under the impression of suddenly being stuck in a hurricane. “Just for fun. If you insist.” 

John walked quickly and Paul followed until they reached the nearest alley. 

“Don’t wanna have anyone watching us, y’ know”, John said with a wink. “I don’t want my Paulie to serve as porn for old ladies passing by.” 

Paul didn’t answer, for his brain hadn’t even managed to register the words. 

“You alright, Macca?”

“Yeah… Yes, I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

John shook his head, smirking. 

“See? That’s what I was saying. Always in a good mood.” 

Now that those words weren’t thrown at him like daggers, Paul almost saw them as a compliment. 

He looked at John. Tiny clouds of mist were escaping his mouth, as if he were smoking. Paul looked at his chin, his nose, his scarlet cheeks. He could feel John’s stare on his freezing skin, somewhat warming it. 

At the touch of each other's lips, they whimpered slightly from the shock of the cold. 

Paul knew he would come to regret this, just like he would often regret enjoying the first snow when the real winter came, harsh and drab. But for now, he didn’t mind. At that moment, he had the true, burning conviction that he wasn’t the best at all. 

John cupped Paul’s cheeks, the fabric of his gloves rubbing them softly. He swore he could feel the cold of his skin through the cloth and was struck by the simple will of warming it. 

They parted. 

“So, who’s the best, then?” John asked cheekily, but his eyes seemed twice as wide as usual. 

“Still can’t tell”, Paul whispered. “What d'you say we… we try another round to be sure, eh…?”


End file.
